


The Heartless Men

by JustNeededAUsername



Series: The Case File of Minor Tales [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Inspired by Buffy the Vampire Slayer but nothing supernatural - It is not as weird as it might sound, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustNeededAUsername/pseuds/JustNeededAUsername
Summary: A couple of one shots with minor cases for the Baker Street Boys inspired by a mixture of episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the cruel reality of crime that we sometimes face. Nothing supernatural, the BTVS episodes just got my imagination going. No knowledge of the episodes needed.
Series: The Case File of Minor Tales [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878043
Kudos: 1





	The Heartless Men

**Author's Note:**

> I am hoping to make this a couple of one shots with minor cases for the Baker Street Boys inspired by a mixture of episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the cruel reality of crime that we sometimes face (Or maybe I've just watched too much Criminal Minds...). Nothing supernatural, the BTVS episodes just got my imagination going. No knowledge of the episodes needed. (But if you for whatever reason have not watched Buffy, you really should, epic show!)
> 
> Don't know if I how many I will make. It will depend on the mercy of the muses, so I have marked the story as Complete. However, if inspiration strikes, I will add more (Especially since it turns out to be a lot easier to kindly lend a plot instead of having to make one up :P)
> 
> I was a bit uncertain about the rating for this one, as it took a bit of a darker turn during the writing than expected, but nothing too explicit I think, so I kept it T.
> 
> Please enjoy :)
> 
> P.S. of course I do not own Sherlock. If I did, we would not be waiting this damn long for a fifth season!

John opened the cupboard, but quickly shut it again.

"What is that?" he called into the living room.

"You need to be more specific," came the lazy drawl from the couch.

"The _thing_. In the jar. Next to the honey," John gritted out.

"An experiment," Sherlock left the couch to join John in the kitchen, "I expected a doctor to be able to recognize human livers."

"That's not liver. Not anymore," John pointed angrily to the cupboard.

Sherlock frowned and walked up to the cupboard, opening it; "Huh. Interesting. I need adjust the chemical solution."

"No. You need to get that out. Of. The. Kitchen!" John emphasised.

"Oh, you killjoy," Sherlock grinned, taking out the jar and studying it intensely.

Before John could complaint any more about yet another unmarked, but clearly disgusting content once again carelessly placed among regular food items, Sherlock's mobile chimed and he left the kitchen to pick it up, the jar once again forgotten and left on the counter.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John picked up the jar, looking desperately around for somewhere remotely appropriate to place the dark red mushy liquid.

Sherlock came back into the kitchen, already putting on his coat; "You can attempt to lecture me later, John. We have a case!"

-.-.-.-

When the cab pulled over, it was an unfamiliar sight that met them. It was the high end of town, and the house they stopped in front of resembled a mansion. This was not unusual as they had clients from all social layers. But the number of journalists, and the aggressiveness they were met by when exiting the cab, was.

" _It's the amateur detective!"_

" _Mr. Holmes, is it true that Mr. Walsh has been murdered?"_

" _Why have you already been called in? Is the Yard out of their depth?"_

"Probably."

"Sherlock, shut up."

" _Do you have any leads?"_

" _Do you already know who did it?"_

"Move, you vultures! Out of the way!" Lestrade's gruff yells cut through the questioning and soon after his upper body pushed through the crowd.

A couple of police officers soon joined, and together they created a path through the paparazzi and got Sherlock and John to the closed off side of the police tape.

"What the hell is going on, Greg?" John asked once safe.

"This area is more or less inhabited by the rich and famous. The paparazzi camp out here hoping to catch the next big gossip," Lestrade started leading them into the house, "The moment the first officers arrived, things went haywire. The victim, Riley Walsh, was a big shot lawyer. Not the normal target for the vultures outside, but when word of the murder started spreading, they jumped right on in."

"You called me to protect the Yard from the evil tongues of the press?" Sherlock asked condescendingly.

Lestrade stopped and turned to the detective; "Honestly, yes, I would very much appreciate if we could solve this one quickly and get the scavengers off our backs. But more importantly-"

Lestrade moved a bit further down the hall and nodded towards an open door. John and Sherlock stepped up and looked through the door.

The body of Mr. Walsh was on the light wooden floor, his thorax a gaping red void in his middle.

"-I would like to ensure that we don't have a potential new serial killer on the loose."

-.-.-.-

Even Sherlock gaped at the violent display in front of them.

John had only seen something like this on the autopsy table or in horror movies. By the amount of blood, there was no doubt that the murder had happened in the office. The red stood in stark contrast to the clean, light flooring underneath.

For once, it was not an issue to get Sherlock to wear the blue plastic covers for his shoes.

The room was clear from any forensic personnel or other police officers, probably Lestrade's doing. It was a very nice office, with a massive, rich wooden table and bookshelves to match along the back wall.

"John," though it sounded as a command, the name held a request when spoken by Sherlock.

A request that John by now knew by heart, so he stepped forward to take a closer look at the body, as Sherlock started examining the room around them.

John was careful not to step in the blood and tried to lean over the body to get a look at the massive wound; "This was professionally done… Oh, my- Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock growled from behind the desk.

"You should really see this," the tone of John's voice piqued Sherlock's curiosity, so he stepped up next to the doctor; "His heart…"

"Is missing," Sherlock finished.

Lestrade joined them; "Gruesome, right? You said professionally done, doc? So, is this some lunatic?"

"No," Sherlock answered immediately.

"No? This doesn't seem insane to you?" John asked baffled.

"Depends on your definition of insanity," Sherlock answered smoothly, a small secretive smile.

"Don't tell me you already know who did this?" Lestrade asked with disbelief.

"You are looking for his girlfriend. Quite boring actually," Sherlock started looking around uncaringly, already finding the scene played.

"Girlfriend?" Lestrade gaped.

Sherlock looked tiredly at him before turning to the bookshelves; "If you compare the pictures on the shelves to the current look of Mr. Walsh, he has stepped up his appearances significantly. As there is no wedding ring, no wedding pictures, nothing indicating a woman in the house, it must be someone new in his life. A girlfriend. Probably young, judging by Mr. Walsh's efforts. Probably a surgeon by the professional incisions and removal of the heart. Probably a dramatic gesture due to unrequited love. Maybe he ended the relationship. Maybe it was never as serious for him as for her. Maybe she wanted marriage, but he didn't. Anyhow, she did not handle rejection well."

Lestrade and John stared at him for a moment, then John dared; "You really think that's it? Seems a bit overkill, don't you think?"

Sherlock looked surprised not to receive his usual ' _Brilliant'_ from the doctor before pouting; "All evidence points to it."

"Well, it's a good start," Lestrade tried pouring oil on troubled waters, but only received a searing stare from Sherlock.

Sherlock strode out of the room. John shook Lestrade's hand in goodbye before following him but was not surprised to find that Sherlock had already managed to call a cab despite the frenzy outside, and left John behind.

-.-.-.-

Sherlock was in a terrible mood the following day. He tortured the strings of his beloved instrument, any minor unexpected outcome in his experiments sent petri dishes and test tubes flying to the floor and he seemed to make a point out of misusing and misplacing John's belongings when he didn't use them. At least judging by the amount of unknown numbers sending John the most obscure messages on his mobile.

John tried not to let it get to him, and just read the answers out loud when he heard his phone chime and finally could locate the lost object by sound. On the top bookshelf; "The ring is blue." Inside a book on the windowsill; "Size 3". In the teapot; "Under the pillow." The mails John received during the morning were not much better.

Sherlock didn't acknowledge the answers.

John kept his cool. Until he walked in on Sherlock carefully trying to balance an apple on top of the skull, and an assemble of throwing knives neatly placed on the coffee table.

"All right, Sherlock, no need to kill the skull," John stepped up and snatched the apple from the detective's hands.

"Its an experiment," Sherlock grunted.

"No, this is you being offended by Lestrade and me not agreeing with you yesterday," John looked pointedly at the pouting detective.

"I don't need your confirmation or appraisal," Sherlock bit out.

"But you like it," John pointed out, and before Sherlock could think of a comeback, he continued; "Just because we disagree for once, it doesn't mean you're wrong or that we don't trust you. We just both had a feeling that it was something else. Why else would Greg call you for an, admittedly gruesome, but single murder?"

" _Feeling_ ," Sherlock sneered and continued mockingly, "That's the problem. You don't observe, you just _feel_. 'Uh, a bit of blood. Let's forget about the evidence. This _feels_ like a serial killer'. If feelings could summon a serial killer, they would actually have a useful purpose"

"You know that's not-" John started, but Sherlock's mobile chimed and Sherlock immediately left him to avoid the confrontation. John still called after him; "-how it is, and you know that. Instinct is more based on what your experience is telling you rather than your feelings."

Sherlock didn't respond. He stood motionless, looking down on his phone.

"What is it?" John finally asked.

Sherlock lowered his mobile, talking to the floor instead of John; "Lestrade found the girlfriend. She called Mr. Walsh's phone. She has an airtight alibi. And she's a librarian."

The room was silent for a moment.

"So," John started carefully, "She couldn't have done it?"

It was better, but still sounded to Sherlock as _'So, you were wrong.'_

"No," Sherlock answered almost too silent to hear.

John swallowed before squaring his shoulders; "So what do we do now?"

Emotions crossed Sherlock's face too fast for John to identify them all; Shame, disappointment, frustration, anger. And then; Excitement.

"We wait for the next murder."

-.-.-.-

They didn't have to wait long (Thank God, the only thing more frustrating than a pouting Sherlock, was an impatient Sherlock). Five days later, on a grey Saturday afternoon, Lestrade called them to the next murder. It was an almost copy of the first scene; Lavish residential area, spectacular house, expensive carpet ruined by murder-autopsy. The only change was that the scene had moved from the office to the bedroom.

"Well, at least we seem to have a pattern," Lestrade sighed from the door.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed with a small smile to his face, studying the body.

"Any new theories?"

"Four."

"Willing to share?"

"Nope."

"Sherlock, play nice," John sighed in the tone of a parent repeating the same berating sentence to their child.

"Oh, alright. You are still looking for a doctor. Clearly a surgical removal. Plus, not many forensic leads, something a doctor has a basic knowledge of and knows how to cover. Male, female, unknown. But not a lover. Mr. Jones clearly didn't put on any effort for a new lover in his life. There is a needle mark on the left side of his neck, probably a sedative to enable the autopsy."

"But the first victim didn't have a needle mark?" John asked.

"He probably had, but no one looked for it," Sherlock avoided eye contact, 'no one' clearly referring to himself, before shifting to a lighter note; "Plus, he had significantly more hair than Mr. Jones, probably to maintain a younger look to be attractive to his younger girlfriend. This scene is overall cleaner. Out murderer is evolving quickly."

"Alright. I'll get the coroner to check up on that," Lestrade took out his mobile and started texting orders.

Sherlock took advantage of the D.I. being distracted and left the room, dragging John by his arm to make him follow quickly.

Once outside, John pulled his arm free; "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"We're going out," Sherlock stated, raising his hand to signal for a cab.

"Out where?"

-.-.-.-

John had been in his fair share of gloomy bars. During his days with the army, it had often been a kind of kick for them to go into the dark pits that normally only served regulars.

But they had never gone to places like this. It was your basic small club, with a bar, small round tables for intimate conversations scattered around the room, a dancefloor and an overly enthusiastic DJ. Yet it was a place where two worlds met. On one side, everything screamed luxury; the people, their clothes, the selection at the bar, _the prices_. On the other side, it screamed of desperation; Young men and women engaging with the luxury, trying to get their piece of it through short skirts and open shirts. All of if bathed in darkness and dark flashing colours across the dancefloor.

In his usual fashion, Sherlock had given no explanation when he had pulled clothes from John's closet for him to wear ( _Seriously, John. There should be laws against shirts this colour. Throw it out. And then put this on_ ), especially since it was some of the best clothes he had. For a moment, he considered protesting against wearing it, as he got the feeling that they would not come back in once piece. But then he considered when was the last time he had worn them and deemed that wearing them to solve this case would actually give these clothes a purpose.

Where John felt like drowning, Sherlock seemed to be swimming splendidly. His clothes and posture for once working as perfect camouflage instead of making him standout. His natural posh attitude making him fit in perfectly with the other wealthy men and women looking for company.

Sherlock had ordered a drink for them, and judging by the taste, a full bottle of the stuff would be worth more than John's monthly salary. Though John outwardly did not approve, he was secretly very happy that Sherlock had once again had a disagreement with his brother and stolen his wallet in retribution.

After having enjoyed a sip of the expensive drink, John leaned across the table; "Not that this isn't an interesting venue, but would you mind telling me what the hell we are actually doing here?"

"Research."

"Sherlock…" At least Sherlock knew that warning tone well enough by now, so John didn't have to elaborate.

"Fine. At the first crime scene I noticed a brochure for this establishment on the office desk but didn't find it significant at the time. However, today at Mr. Jones', I found a receipt from the same place, dated last evening. Hence, this is the last known location of Mr. Jones before his death, and there is a possibility that the same goes for Mr. Welch. Meaning…?" Sherlock left the last word hanging for John to complete the sentence.

"Meaning… that this could be where they met the murderer," John completed, suddenly looking at the establishment with different eyes.

"Exactly," Sherlock's eyes roamed the place.

John stopped watching the people and instead watched his friend. On one level, his eyes seemed blank, cold as steel. On another, they seemed to flicker so quickly that John just wasn't able to register the thoughts or emotions behind them. Not for the first time, he wondered what it must be like in Sherlock's head, to be strapped to that out-of-control rocket. How much information was passing by his vision, transmitting to his brain, being dissected and translated by his genius and then categorised until further data would be collected and help create a pattern.

"Stop it."

John shook his head at the interruption to his thoughts; "What?"

"You are thinking about me thinking. It's irritating and unnecessary. You already have a limited capacity for observation, I recommend you aim it at our potential murderer instead of me."

When John opened his mind to lecture Sherlock on his bluntness, Sherlock quickly shut him down; "You know what I mean."

John bit his lip and turned his attention away; "Fine."

A couple of minutes later, and a lot of beautiful people passing by, looking more like magazine covers than murderers, John turned back to the detective; "You know, this is not a case of finding Waldo, Sherlock. There might be a murderer in here. Why are we not just checking the security footage?"

"You have already noticed the clienteles of this place. Do you really think they want to be caught on camera?"

"Maybe not," John admitted, "But what exactly are we looking for? It can't be one of the… Someone too young. I mean, you said it was a doctor and it takes a couple of tears to become one. I mean-"

"We should split up."

Sherlock strolled away from the table before John could disagree, striding up to a group of men and women who already seemed quite intoxicated. From one second to the other, Sherlock went from walking straight and posed to becoming loose and giddy.

John couldn't hear what he said, but he was quickly invited into the group. He had probably deduced something that gave him a perfect opening. John wondered how a man who could read people so easily, had such a hard time understanding them. On the other hand, John could understand people fairly well, but not read them as well as Sherlock could. Maybe there would always be a trade-off.

_Enough musing, Watson. Get to work._

-.-.-.-

While Sherlock waltzed from one group to the next and from one person to another through the club, John decided to stick with what he knew best and sit by the bar. He would keep an eye on Sherlock while listening in on the conversations around him, trying to pick up on anything relevant. But most importantly, he was getting more and more familiar with the bartenders.

After two more drinks came the expected statement; "You're new here."

"Yes. Yes, I am," John smiled at the young woman. Was there an age limit to bartenders? Probably. She was most likely bordering on whatever that limit was.

"What brings you here?" She smiled.

"Er…" _My consulting detective flatmate is investigating a gruesome murder and we believe the murderer is someone in this club_ , "A friend of mine recommended the place."

"Someone I know?" How bright could a smile get? She must be thinking that he could provide a very decent tip with all the effort she was putting into it.

"Maybe. Riley Walsh?" John scrutinized for a reaction to the name but found none. _Damn_.

"Sorry. Don't know him," Still smiling. For some reason, John started feeling sorry for her. It was as if the smile was genuine but the feeling behind it was not real. She smiled because he was a nice person to talk to, but not because it made her happy.

"He told me he usually comes here with another friend of ours. Charlie Jones?" John fished.

"Oh yeah, I know him," She was relieved to establish a connection to her potential big tipper.

"Really?" _Please know more than his usual drink order_.

"Yeah, he was in here yesterday."

"Oh. What a shame I missed him. Did he have a good time?" John tried to keep his voice light. Though she didn't seem the brightest, most people quickly caught onto insistent questioning.

"He did. I think he found some company," She bit her lip suggestively.

"Good for him," John tried to smile happily while only ever knowing Mr. Jones as a body with a gaping hole in his chest, "I hope you made sure that he left with someone good for him?"

"Oh yeah, Olivia always takes good care of her boys."

God, did she just serve him the name of the killer? "Olivia, huh?"

"Well, if you don't mind sharing with your friends…" The bartender cast a glance over his shoulder and John turned to follow her gaze.

Her eyes guided him to a girl who seemed to be melting into the side of a man in a very sharp suit. She was whispering in his ear, caressing his arm, basically using every trick in the book to seduce him. And she was much too young to be a doctor.

John cursed under his breath. He couldn't imagine her being the murderer. But better safe than sorry. He started searching the room for Sherlock to share his new knowledge and get the man to deduce the girl and make sure she didn't do it.

-.-.-.-

John was surprised and slightly amused to find Sherlock with a young man, who was clearly not taking any of the hints Sherlock was sending his way. When John had first met Sherlock, he would not had been able to see through Sherlock's acting, but now he could clearly see that Sherlock was trying to get a read of the older people in the group. However, this young man was all over him, demanding his attention. Sherlock would normally have been able to shake him off with less than a handful of words, but since he had to sweettalk his way into the other members of the group, he could not dismiss him so easily.

Normally, John would receive a lashing for disturbing Sherlock's process, but this time, the detective actually seemed relieved. The young man seemed less grateful.

John quickly relayed what the bartender had told him, and Sherlock quickly strode up to Olivia and ruthlessly interrupted her and her 'date', the drunken, friendly façade long forgotten; "Did you leave with Charlie Jones last night?"

Olivia sent him an annoyed look; "I don't kiss and tell."

"Last night, Mr. Jones was brutally murdered, so unless you wish to take this to Scotland Yard, I strongly suggest you start _telling_ ," Sherlock growled.

The man that Olivia had been leaning on left his seat fast and quietly, leaving the shocked girl almost tipping over; "I- But- No, I didn't do anything!"

"Just tell us what happened, Olivia," John intervened before panic could break loose.

"That woman came and took him away! I don't know what she said to him, but he smiled and then they left."

"What woman?" Sherlock urged.

Olivia started looking around; "She was here earlier. I don't know her name."

Sherlock turned to John; "She could have left. She might already have her next victim. Come along!"

-.-.-.-

After having checked the bathroom, to three women's great dismay ( _"_ _No, no, no. None of you could possibly achieve any kind of degree, much less a medical one"_ ), Sherlock and John ended up outside the club, where smokers were collecting in the cold night. Sherlock looked up and down the street, as if trying to deduce where they could have gone.

"Lost something?" A young man approached them. John briefly considered berating him on the increased risk of infection when standing outside in the cold London night air almost unbuttoned.

"We are looking for a woman who frequent this club. She might just have left with a man. She would be fairly new here and leave with a new man the times she had been here," Sherlock rambled.

"Sounds like pretty much anyone," A girl laughed, coming up behind the young man, grabbing his arm to stay on her feet.

"She's a doctor or surgeon," John supplied.

"Many doctors here…" The man drawled.

"Young woman, doctor, new around here, can steal a man away from anyone, just come through here, someone please use your brain!" Sherlock exclaimed.

After a moment, the girl wrinkled her brows thoughtfully; "Sounds kinda like Nicole…"

"Nicole?" Sherlock perked up.

"Yeah. She's a doctor, and she's gorgeous. Very sweet. Stole a guy from Olivia last night. If looks could-"

"Yes-yes-yes, irrelevant. Did she just leave with a man?"

"No…" John's heart sank before the girl added; "She left with a woman."

"Do you know who?" Sherlock grabbed the girl's shoulders to make her focus.

"Yeah. Cheryl is a good… _friend_ … of mine."

-.-.-.-

John was ever grateful for Sherlock's ability to hail a cab out of nowhere, otherwise they would not have reached the address as quickly as they did.

"Sherlock, will we be on time?" John had asked, needing to know what they were walking in to.

"I don't know."

When they arrived at yet another house-bordering-on-mansion, Sherlock went to a red car parked by the kerb; "Of course she drives. She needs her equipment. John, quickly now!"

John was also ever grateful for his friend's lockpicking skills. John had been about to knock in the door, to get the attention of whoever might be in the house, but Sherlock had quickly deterred him, stating that they might make the murderer panic and accelerate her process. _If they were not already too late._

When they entered the house, it was eerily quiet. The rooms on the bottom floor were dark, but the stair and the hall upstairs were illuminated.

John, by reflex, pulled his gun from the waist band of his trousers. With a nod to Sherlock, they started ascending the stairs. Halfway up, a haunting song reached them, and guided them down the hall towards what turned out to be the bedroom.

_Can't even shout_

_Can't even cry_

_The gentlemen are coming by_

_Bringing a present_

_Petting your head_

_They need you to behave_

_And get in your bed_

_Can't call to mum_

_Can't say a word_

_You try to say something_

_But you won't be heard_

John was surprised and chilled by the childlike quality to the singing, especially when they turned to the door opening.

On the floor laid one woman, her white shirt open and a slim, red river running down the middle of her chest. Next to her sat another woman. Despite being dressed in the pullover plastic suit and blue foot covers that John usually sported at the crime scenes, she was stunningly beautiful. She repeated the ominous song as the slowly finished running a scalpel down the woman on the floor.

She suddenly noticed their movements, and moved around the body to face them, while still keeping the scalpel down by the body; "Stop right there!"

"Easy now," John stepped forward, gun lowered in his left hand but ready in front of him, his right hand lifted in a calming gesture, "Nicole, put down the knife."

"No, no, no. You can't be here," Anger reached her eyes.

"Nicole, I need you to drop the knife and step back." John's voice was as calm as the hand holding the gun.

"You don't understand…" She bit out, the anger now underlined with tears in her eyes, but she was still determined.

"No, we don't," Sherlock stepped forward, John shooting him an uncertain glance, "We couldn't possible understand what happened to you as a child. But we do know that this woman is not to blame, none of your victims were."

"They are hurting the girls," came the meagre reply.

"They?" John pushed.

"The rich men and women at the club. The privileged," anger seeped into her voice again, "These so-called gentlemen and ladies. They hunt the young girls."

"You went to the club. Probably some friends from the surgery invited you for a night out. But seeing the young men and women there, and the rich people allowing it-" Sherlock started deducing but was cut off.

"They are taking advantage of them," Nicole sneered.

"They might be young, but they are by definition grownups," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

A sneering smile spread on her face, eyes studying Sherlock; "What would you know? You're just like them. Arrogant. Elevated from decency."

"Nicole, I'm sorry that someone hurt you. You didn't deserve that. No one does," John drew her attention away from Sherlock, "But this is not what people like us do."

Both Sherlock and Nicole looked puzzled at John, and Nicole asked the question hanging in the air; "Us?"

"Doctors. We are both doctors, and this is not what we do," John positioned the gun behind his leg to keep it from view and slowly stepped forward; "We help people. We save them. But right now, you are hurting people. And that's not what you signed up for. What _we_ signed up for. Remember? We took an oath. To retrain from causing harm and hurt."

She was gritting her teeth, studying John as he closed in on her.

When John felt as close as he could get, he squatted down to be in eye level with the woman; "Please Nicole. No more hurt. We help people. Let me help you. Please."

"You don't know anything!" The scalpel was shaking now.

"To retrain from causing harm and hurt," John repeated firmly, as if this was the only universal truth of significance right now, holding out a hand for the scalpel.

The seconds passed by. John didn't say anything else. No ' _We caught you red-handed – literally_ ' or ' _There is no way out of this_ '. That was not what she needed to hear or deserved to hear right now, no matter how true it might be.

A single tear broke away from her eye, and her features softened though her eyes remained cold, though suddenly oddly detached. She carefully placed the scalpel in his hand and raised her hands above her head.

John threw the scalpel behind him, to keep it out of reach before turning to Sherlock; "Handcuffs."

Sherlock dug into his coat and handed John the item. It was unnecessary to say that Sherlock should stay back and let John approach Nicole. Instead he whipped out his phone and quickly sent a message.

As soon as Nicole was cuffed, John turned to the woman on the floor, checking her pulse, studying the wound – _Only preliminary cut, nothing too deep, but still bleeding_ \- and looking into her eye, double checking; "God, she's awake, isn't she?"

"Yep," The reply was cold and bitter, "She knows exactly what's happening."

John stood up and went to the medical bag and started roaming it for bandages and an antidote to the muscle relaxant; "Sherlock, press this to the chest wound."

Sherlock did as ordered, helping to stop the blood flow while John made the antidote ready. As he looked down at the chest of the woman, one unanswered question popped into his mind; "Why the hearts?"

The deep baritone stopped John in his tracks for a moment, casting a look at the reddening cloth beneath Sherlock's fingers.

"They didn't need them. They didn't know how to use them," Nicole looked coolly from the red chest to the detective, rage filling her eyes as she sneered, "You don't deserve them."

-.-.-.-

"This doesn't feel like much of a victory," John sighed as they watched Nicole being taken away by the police car.

"Maybe not in our usual sense," Sherlock agreed.

John thought for a moment, and despite maybe not wanting to know the answer, he still voiced his question; "Where did she put the hearts?"

"I don't know," Sherlock seemed to think it over, "Maybe she has them in the kitchen cupboard next to the honey?"

"Sherlock!" But John couldn't help but snicker despite the inappropriateness, "Oh God, I hope she doesn't have some poor flatmate, then."

Sherlock smiled as well; "Oh, the flatmate would be so lucky."

After a moment pause, Sherlock added, in a more serious tone: "You saved Cheryl."

" _We_ saved her," John corrected him.

"You played a much grander part in this case than you give yourself credit for. You recognized that the first victim was not a simple killing. You received the defining clue in the bar. You talked Nicole out of hurting Cheryl any further," Sherlock turned to John and the smile was the first sign of warmth in the otherwise praising words; "Well done."

John smiled gratefully back; "You know you are not like any of these people, right? I mean, despite you denying that you have a heart, you do have one and you are better at using it than you think."

Apparently, this was enough sentiment for Sherlock as he ignored John's remark and instead said; "I guess it was about time that you picked up some of your slack on these cases. We can't have people thinking you are useless after all."

John, however, recognized the humorous jab; "Well, I wouldn't want to overshadow the world's leading drama queen."

"You couldn't possible overshadow anyone in those jumpers you wear."

"Git," John bit out under a smile.

A moment of silence passed as they watched the police work and the ambulance leave with Cheryl. When the doors closed on the vehicle, the case felt closed.

John turned to Sherlock; "So… Chinese?"

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the BTVS episode "Hush". If you don't know the episode, I could recommend youtubing the song (searching "Buffy Hush Song" will do the trick) just to get the creepy feeling. I rewrote the text to fit the theme.
> 
> The theme was probably also inspired by my current obsession with the song Innocence by Halestorm.
> 
> The quote "To retrain from causing harm and hurt" from the Hippocratic oath is from Britannica. As I understand, there are many versions of the oath, so this may not be current, but it sounded fit well.
> 
> These first two chapters have been a bit on the dark side. In the best Buffy style, I think I will try to lighten up the next chapter. Maybe. Depends on what comes out of the keyboard.


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